


Almost Like Lovin'

by SomeBratInAMask



Category: Borderlands
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 04:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7998247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeBratInAMask/pseuds/SomeBratInAMask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack walks the fine line between love and blow jobs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Like Lovin'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlphaMercy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaMercy/gifts).



> EDIT: Oh, boy, I had accidentally deleted an entire line of dialogue in the process of pasting this. My bad if anyone was left confused!

Rhys believed one of his most impressive qualities to be his ability to sleep-work. He had always possessed an above-average work ethic – more a fact than a boast, really – and so excelling in his career was _instinct._ He was a natural over-achiever. Everyone knew it, though, which meant Rhys had to be considerate of his lower-performing coworkers. It paid to be humble.

Part of being a company man meant that there were two ways of waking up: to the shriek of an alarm clock, and to the shriek of his supervisor. (Not that Henderson shrieked. Rhys had all the respect in the world for his boss, and he told him that every time Vasquez would try to weasel into Henderson’s good graces.) Henderson knocked the back of Rhys’ chair, jolting him out of the trance coding all day had put him in.

Rhys shook his head to clear it. His floor was nearly empty, save for Mariah stuffing a folder into her tote bag as she spoke softly into her Bluetooth. The bright ceiling lights momentarily blinded him. It was like his first day at Hyperion all over again: waking up from a hospital bed with a doctor shining an LED flashlight directly into his last remaining retina.

“Come on, Rhys,” called Henderson, already halfway to the elevator door. “I’m not paying you overtime. Get out.”

Rhys stood abruptly from his seat and nodded. “Right, Mr. Henderson, sir. Wouldn’t, uh, dream of it.” He chuckled, but the doors closed before he could see if Henderson was laughing too. Rhys looked down at his computer. He was so close to finishing. He leaned over his desk, planning on just a few more lines.

“Don’t get locked in,” warned Mariah, her heels clacking swiftly past him. Rhys glared at her retreating back, then sighed in resignation. Everyone here was a bunch of half-assed snobs. Nothing new. Rhys saved his project and closed out of the window. As his computer shut down, his eyes snagged on the small picture of Handsome Jack he had taped to the bottom of his screen. His inspiring, manic grin and the empowering gray streak in his hair provided some comfort. It was important to have goals in a shark tank like Hyperion.

Visualization was key. Pick who you wanted to be, print out one of their selfies from Instagram, cut it carefully into a square, and add it to your desk’s inspo collage. Sure, he had dealt with teasing here and there. But that was a small price to pay for a solid wish-actualization method. “You know, that’s the problem with Hyperion monkeys,” muttered Rhys, checking his cell-phone as he strode toward the elevator. No new messages. “They lack _creativity!”_

Rhys was creative. Not in that artistic way that poor people were. He was a creative _problem-solver._ He got things _done._

Inside the elevator, Rhys sent a quick text to Vaughn to let him know he was out. Before locking his phone, he stared at the wallpaper of Handsome Jack. Yvette had changed it to the Hyperion CEO when she had stolen his phone last week. More silly teasing for Rhys idolizing Handsome Jack. It was juvenile. Not worth Rhys’ time.

He really should change the wallpaper though. He would’ve sooner; he just didn’t care. Rhys didn’t care about trivial things, like workplace gossip or whose phone had what pictures, or the broad expanse of Jack’s bare shoulders and thick crop of hair leading down to the waistline of his boxers. Trivial. Juvenile. Not worth his time.

Stepping out onto the first-floor lobby, Rhys went to settings as he made his way to the parking lot. No time like the present to make the change.

So he added a password to his phone. _Let’s see Yvette snoop through my texts now._ Then he dropped the phone in the front pocket of his slacks and entered the garage. The air was cold, but Rhys didn’t park too far. He had a roof to shield him from the snowflakes swirling outside. He’d be fine.

Christ, though, would it have killed him to bring some gloves? Rhys crossed his arms over his chest. Maybe if he huddled in on himself, he’d generate heat – like those penguins in those sad wildlife documentaries. His breath came out in condensed puffs that carried off like floating snowballs.

“Hey, cupcake!” Rhys’ heart pinged before his brain even registered Jack’s voice. His head snapped forward to where Jack was leaning against Rhys’ car. The leather jacket looked warm. Rhys briefly fantasized of them walking around the garage, chatting for hours until Jack leant him his coat. When that wasn’t enough, he’d wrap his arms around Rhys and Jack’s breath would heat the tips of his ears.

“Huh, never thought I’d see the great Handsome Jack loitering after hours,” quipped Rhys, shoving his reddened his hands in his pockets. Maybe he should keep them out, though. Maybe Jack would notice he was getting cold and give him his leather gloves for the night. Rhys extracted his hands and crossed his arms again, displaying his fingers just in case Jack took pity.

“Loitering what? My own company? Or just your shitty car specifically?” Jack asked.

Rhys laughed noiselessly. It was charming, in an asshole way, how Jack would say whatever was on his mind. “My shitty car,” he answered. Then he crinkled his brow. “Though she’s not _shitty.”_ Rhys reached out to rub the icy metal of the trunk. “Sure, I bought her used. But she was a beauty in her day. Still is. With great mileage,” he defended.

Jack snorted, jerking his chin in his own rendition of a hair flip. “Oh, yeah. I’m sure she’s got lots of mileage.” He slapped the trunk. The worn metal dented momentarily before popping up.

Rhys narrowed his eyes. “Are you calling my car a _whore?”_

“If the tire fits, am I right?” Jack rolled his head back as he laughed.

“No, you are certainly not right.” The more Jack insulted his car, the more Rhys loved it. That realization came with a burst of pride. He’d be telling this to Vaughn and Yvette later, since they had accused him of agreeing with whatever Jack said. Rhys was an equal to Jack. That’s why Jack liked him. They _got_ each other.

Jack pushed off of the car. “Look, I love when you pout, pumpkin. I do, really,” he said, poking Rhys’ bottom lip. “But I got to go – anywhere else.”

“What?” said Rhys. He was confused. Had he said something wrong?

“I’m bored,” offered Jack in explanation. “It’s nothing personal. At least, no more personal than the fact that you’re the one boring me.”

Rhys almost apologized, but he stopped himself. Jack always told him he was an “annoying little bitch” whenever he apologized. “In a cute, pathetic way,” Jack had added only once, when Rhys had topped and got too eager. Rhys immediately backed off, apologies spilling from his lips, among other things that would serve as masturbation fodder for months to come.

This time, Rhys forced himself to snicker. “Oh, I get it,” he lied. “This is you playing hard to get. Pro-tip: tracking down where I parked my car and then waiting for me to get out of work doesn’t actually come off as casual.” He wasn’t sure where he thought he was going with this, but he was willing to say and do just about anything if it meant Jack not leaving for a couple more minutes.

Still, he hated how easily Jack wrecked his delusion of a relationship. Every time they slept together, Rhys’ face in the pillow as Jack kissed down his spine – or Jack’s husky drawl in his ears as he rode Rhys’ cock – Rhys perceived a new layer of intimacy, like a line of code that built something amazing. Then Jack would peel himself off and toss Rhys a washcloth. Out of the house before Jack was out of the shower. That was their system, always. Rhys would mope all the way back to his car, wondering for the rest of the night what Jack would be doing for the rest of week.

Jack chuckled darkly. The sound melted into Rhys, snow on his tongue. “You think you’ve got me _all_ figured out. Don’t you, Rhysie?”

Navigating their relationship wouldn’t be so difficult if Jack’s sex voice wasn’t identical to his murder voice. “I’m sorry,” said Rhys, which was probably permissible, because it was sarcastic. “Were you aiming for mysterious?” Rhys grimaced mockingly. “Missed the mark there.”

Jack scrutinized him. Being quietly assessed by Jack was one of the top most uncomfortable experiences in anyone’s lifetime. Finally, Jack leaned back against the car. “Tell you what, kid. If you can, ah – _ensnare_ my attention in the next,” Jack glanced at the wrist without a watch, “five seconds, I’ll stay like a pretty, paralytic doll propped limply against your senior citizen of a motor vehicle.”

Five seconds maybe allowed for a knock-knock joke, if he knew any knock-knock jokes that wouldn’t instantly convince Jack to shoot him where he stood. “Two seconds,” droned Jack. Rhys’ flight-or-fight response kicked in and he grabbed Jack by the waist of his jeans and fell to his knees.

Jack watched as Rhys undid the zipper and dragged the denim to his ankles. Another one of Rhys’ most impressive traits: he performed well under pressure, if he did say so himself.

He ran his palms up Jack’s thighs, tan and covered in hair, and slipped under his boxers. He paused, fingers stroking Jack’s hardening dick. He hummed thoughtfully as goosebumps rose along Jack’s legs from the cold. Probably should make this one quick, if he didn’t want Jack to make some pun about blue balls in the next few minutes. “Limp, you say,” Rhys commented. Then he smirked up at him and yanked Jack's boxers down. “Think I’m going to have to fact-check that.”

The system, however unsatisfying long-term, had its perks. And anyway, Rhys was never changing his phone’s wallpaper.


End file.
